Crash! El x Sands fic
by Kaian
Summary: Sequel to “Thwack!” - Sands gets in touch with his fatherly side, with help from his favorite lil Chicle Boy. Also... mild slash and bad Spanish translations. Sorry!


Title:                 Crash! – El x Sands fanfic (Sequel to Thwack!)

Author: Kaian

Movie:              Once Upon a Time in Mexico

Pairing: El x Sands

Rating:              PG-13/R ~ for language and a smidgen of slashy citrus (*snicker*)

Summary:         Sequel to "Thwack!" Sands gets up the courage to leave his safe haven, aided by his favorite lil Chicle Boy.

Disclaimer:        Not mine. Don't sue. I'm broke.

Feedback:        Please and thank you!!!

Notes:              I apologize for my sucky Spanish. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing with this language. All my help comes from Terra and a Spanish translation site that might misinterpret my entries. Oops. So… apologies, if my Spanish doesn't make any sense.

Oh, also – in this fic, Sands and El have kind of "unofficially" adopted the Chicle Boy, whom I call Mateo (meaning "Gift of God" in Spanish, I think).

"El?"

Snore.

Thwack! Pillow across face. Startled yelp, thrashing arms, flailing legs. Ow.

"_¡YO LO MATARÉ, USTED GRINGO ESTÚPIDO!!!_"

Snicker. "I feel so loved."

Ferocious snarl. Deep breaths. Calm down. Don't kill him. "WHAT do you want now?" Demanding. Seriously pissed.

Nonchalant shrug. "I dunno."

Hyperventilating. "YOU WOKE ME UP AT…" Pause, glance at clock. "…Nine thirty?" Confusion.

Smirk. "You overslept. I figured I'd help you out, since you didn't seem to hear your alarm blaring a half hour ago. So… Buenos dias, sleepy-head."

Groan. "And I _wonder_ why. I seem to have this memory of you keeping me up all last night with your complaints."

"And you say _I'm _the one with the complaints?" Raise an eyebrow. Ignore the pain in the eye socket. Ow. Never mind. "Ow."

Alarm. "You shouldn't do that. You'll make yourself bleed again."

Twitch. Don't raise an eyebrow. Good – no pain. "Your concern for my welfare moves me." Cynical as always.

Resigned sigh. Brush hair back from face, squint in sunlight. "Have you talked to Mateo yet?"

"Nah. The kid's still sleeping out there. I swear he could sleep straight through a tornado if he wanted to."

Grumbling.

"What was that, El?"

More grumbling.

"Did you just call me a douche bag?"

"Si."

Thwack!!!

"Ow!!! I was hoping you'd STOP that already!!!"

"Teeheehee."

"That's it." Throw back covers, jump out of bed. Lunge! "You're dead, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands!!!"

Squeal! Scamper backwards – four steps, remember that: four steps until the door. Don't run into the door, blind son of a bitch!

Whirl around on fourth step, brush fingertips along door frame to make sure it's still there. Dodge grasping hands and dash out into kitchen.

"YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGH!!!"

"Come on, Sands!" Not angry; this is fun. "Come on, now! Come to El Mariachi and get what you deserve!"

CRASH!

"Eep!"

BAM! Thump, thump…

"Okay… ow. That's not fucking fair!"

"What? Didn't you see that chair?"

"Shut up, fuckmook." Sit up; feet elbow, ouch. "That hurt like a motherfucker, and you know it."

Consider. Shrug, nod. "Si."

"You sadistic son of a bitch. I wish I had a gun."

"What? You mean the gun that's in the bag underneath the bed with your third arm and that Sesame Street lunch box?" Incredulity. Still can't believe it. Sesame Street, of all things…

"Uh-huh. That's right. Hey – do you mind helping me out here? I seem to have a chair leg embedded in my kidney."

Door creak. Tentative footsteps. "Papá?"

Grunt. Climb to feet; totter uneasily. Find balance. "Mateo?"

"Buenos dias, Papá."

"Uh-huh, yeah. You want breakfast?" Ignore El, snickering in the doorway.

"Si."

"Alright… Ow. Uh… c'mere."

More tentative footsteps. Shuffling. Small hand grasping larger hand.

"Alrighty then… Uh. You know where the cereal is? Because I sure as hell don't."

Lead over to cabinet, feet shuffling. Compliant. "Here it is."

"Thanks, Mateo. Good boy." Open door, flinch at the sound of roaches skittering around inside. Shudder. Eew. "You want Cap'n Crunch or…" open box, reach inside, feel cereal crunch between fingertips, "Rice Krispies?"

"Froot Loops."

Long pause. "Froot Loops."

"Si."

"Uh… El?"

Saunter over, enjoying the moment. "Si?"

"Do we have any Froot Loops?"

"What? Can't you read the labels?" Sarcasm.

"Shut up. You're no help. Go away. Mateo – do you see any Froot Loops?"

"No."

"Well, then, what do you want? Look – we have Cap'n Crunch here. I don't know about you, but I personally really like this shit – er, stuff. Why don't I pour you a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, eh?"

"Papá?"

"Yeah?"

"I want Froot Loops."

Another long pause. "You want Froot Loops."

"Si."

Yet another long pause. "Uh…El?"

Cross arms, lean against table. "Si?"

"Can you run to the store and buy a box of Froot Loops?"

"I can."

"WILLyou, though?"

"Depends."

"Depends on what?" Exasperation. "CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THE BOY WANTS HIS FROOT LOOPS?!!" Fling right arm sideways.

CRASH!!! Tinkle, tinkle.

"OW!!! MOTHERFUCK – I mean… Owwwwwww."

Roll eyes. "You'd better watch your language around the boy, Gringo."

Mutter under breath. "Stupid motherfucking piece of shit coffee mug. Who the hell thought to leave that stupid fucker lying out here on the table?"

"Papá?"

"Yeah?"

"You left the coffee mug on the table."

Don't backhand the kid… he's an innocent bystander…

"Are you all right, Gringo?" Sardonic voice.

That stupid bastard.

"I'm FINE, El, thank you for caring!" Brush boot along floor, feel ceramic shards scrape against wood. "Just peachy. Apparently, I just broke my favorite coffee mug, Mateo's gonna starve to death because he doesn't have the cereal he wants, my eye holes hurt like a motherfu – I mean, my eye holes really hurt – and all you do is stand there and smirk. Yeah, I'm doing just GREAT, thanks to you, El."

Scrape boot. Tinkle. Ceramics.

Mug.

Former mug.

Grr.

Let go of hand, shuffle backwards. "I'll get a broom."

"Good boy!" Sigh, wipe brow. "I tell ya, El… This whole parenting thing isn't as great as everyone makes it seem."

Snort. "Parenting? You? All I hear is, 'El? Please help me! I'm helpless! I can't do anything by mysel – OW!!!"

"Serves you right, you dumb fuck!"

"That doesn't give you any reason to throw a piece of jagged glass at me!"

"Teeheehee."

Bear hug. "Niño estùpido."

"Gah! Can't breathe! RAPE!!!" 

Laugh. Glomp. Snuggle. Kiss. Lick…

Shuffling footsteps. "Papá?"

"YAAAAUGH!!! Jesus! Mateo, you scared the shit – I mean, you really scared me!"

Pull back. Ruffle hair sheepishly. "Buenos dias, Mateo."

"Papá?"

"Yeah, yeah? Yeah? What?"

"Why were you and Señor Mariachi –"

"Ah… Um. Nothing, kid. Do you have the broom?"

"No."

"Couldn't find it?"

"Si."

"Uh-huh. Uh… El?"

Exasperation. "What now??!!"

"Can you help Mateo find the broom?"

"Find it your own damn self, Gringo!"

Pout. "But El… I have this slight problem, remember? The lack of eyes, y'know? It makes it kinda difficult for me to LOOK for things. Y'know?"

Clomping footsteps. "I have to go now, anyway, Gringo."

"Huh? Whah? What? Hey!!!" Stumble; LUNGE!

Miss.

"Where ya going, El?"

"Lejos."

"I know THAT! But WHERE exactly, are you going? And when will you be back? And will you buy the boy some goddamned Froot Loops while you're out?"

Soft laugh. "I'll see you later, Gringo. Adios, Mateo." Clump, clump, swing, click.

Slump against table. Feel ceramic shards skitter across floor.

Groan.

"Fuck."

--

(Two hours later)

"You sure we got everything, kid?"

"Si."

"You'd better not be lying to me, because if I end up stepping on one of those fuck – I mean, on one of those pieces, I'm gonna be severely piss – I mean, I'm gonna be really, really mad. ¿Entiende usted?"

"Si."

"Do you ever say anything else, kid?"

"Si."

Sigh. Sit back on heels, grasp table leg for support. Wipe sweat from brow. "Right, then."

"Papá?"

"Yeah?"

"Soy todavía hambriento." Still hungry.

Mutter. "Jesus Motherfucking Christ…"

"Lo siento."

"Naw, it's not your fault, kiddo. I'm just… I'm just NEW at this, y'know?" Pause. Think. Consider. Aw, fuck it – why not? "Hey, I have an idea. Let's go to the store and buy you some cereal. Okay?"

Enthusiasm. "Okay!" Scamper across room, dump mug pieces in trash. Scamper back, haul to feet. "¿Vamos nosotros ahora?" Can we go now?

"Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea…"

Drag towards door. Thirteen short steps. Arm outstretched, grasped firmly.

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold on a second there, kiddo. Let me make sure I have money… Where the fuck did I put my wallet?"

Release hand, scamper into bedroom, rummage. Rummage some more.

"Be careful in there, Mat –"

CRASH!

"Ohh, shit."

"PAPÁ!!!"

Ten steps, feel for doorway, step inside bedroom. "What didja break, kiddo?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it…"

"Don't worry about it. What didja break?"

Whimper. "Señor Mariachi's alarm clock?"

"Ohh, shit."

"I'm sorry!"

"No, no, no, it's okay. Really. It's okay. I promise. He's gonna overreact as per usual, but don't worry. I'll take the blame for this one, being as I've been crashing into things all morning. Alrighty?"

Shuffle slowly out of bedroom, grasp hand. Tiny whisper. "Alrighty…"

"Alrighty!" Straighten, shrug shoulders, ten steps back to front door. "Let's get going."

"Gracias, Papá."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Open door, step outside; careful for the slight drop. Listen, smell, feel surroundings. Bright, warm morning. Many people.

Loud.

Scary.

Ohh, shit.

…

My name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands… I am going to the store with my kid to buy Froot Loops.

…

I am living la vida loca.

END.


End file.
